The Silhouette on the Other Side
by DestructiveMind
Summary: It is the year 1979 in old London town; a killer like no other roams the sombre streets. Hermione finds herself in a peculiar position as she is left talking to a strange man's silhouette behind a glass screen one gloomy, rainy night. Tom Riddle and Hermione Granger. Non-Magic AU. Mystery/Thriller. Possible a three part story.


Hello everyone! Guess who's back!? To all my followers and fans for Oblitus Renovantes or any of my other stories, I'm such a sucky person for not updating and I will really really try to do so this summer. But meanwhile, I thought of this random story that I just wanted to get out and write, it won't be that long, possibly only 3 chapters long but I will see how it goes. Thank you all for your continued support, it means the world to me! Now please enjoy this rather odd plot bunny!

Please let me know what you think!

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 **The Silhouette on the Other Side**

"What would you like to discuss, Sir?"

Again, no answer. This was the fourth time she had said this; she very nearly gave up and left right then and there, but a part of her did not want to leave. At times, she had thought that perhaps the person on the other side of the opaque, tinted glass had left and replaced their Silhouette with a dummy, but even that was too silly a joke. She didn't see why anyone would do something like this especially for a cause so serious.

This was a service she had set up with a group of friends from work; it began as a service to the elderly in care homes. Something like a Confession at churches, but not specifically entirely for the same purpose. Throughout the day, her and her friends would travel to different places simply to speak to those who had no one to speak to, to comfort and alleviate those people of their worries, or simply chat with whomever had felt they needed someone to talk to. It was entirely successful especially among patients with illnesses who were worsened by loneliness; many of their friends and family had sponsored Hermione and her friends, and eventually, their ventures extended to others. The started to see hospital patients. School children. Homeless people on the street who felt they had no one else that would listen to them. But the one thing they added recently was the Glass, some people would want to talk anonymously. Whether it be ranting about one's cheating spouse, or a child who had broken a vase and felt guilty about blaming their sibling, cheaters on tests or even those who felt cheated, betrayed, mistreated - they could all come to the Glass, sit behind it and speak. They had set it up in several different locations allowing anyone to access whenever they wanted to, and whenever someone was available. They didn't really have shifts; you would just go there if you wanted to, and you wanted to be of service, and then people would see that you're available, and sit opposite you and speak you heart away.

People published articles in newspapers about their services, one even claiming they raised London's spirits at times of great despair. Hermione always loved the fact she was a part of this venture, though sometimes she felt some of the Silhouette's stories would never leave her. Some were gravely upsetting, and she had struggled to respond appropriately. Most of time she was just there to listen, to provide words of encouragement and support; though sometimes she would give advice if she felt the Silhouette needed it. Most of the time the person would tell her what it is they wanted, whether it was advice or simply someone to speak to. Hermione always listened attentively to their request, letting the person speak to their heart's content.

This time, however, the Silhouette sat in silence, not having uttered a single word since - he, she could tell, sat down.

Hermione wondered if perhaps she should start talking about something to encourage the person to speak up, maybe they were simply worried or unsure. She tried to think of anything uplifting she had seen on the newspapers recently, but every front page was always sprawling with daunting, frightening headlines.

 _Serial Murders Continue: A New Ripper in Town?_

 _Citizens Advised to Take Extra Care as Death Toll Rises_

 _Slasher Terrorises London Streets_

Not much was known about the case; and if it was then it was not released to the public. The deaths seemed random and sporadic, with no connections between them and no evidence ever left behind. He was dubbed the Slasher, though little to no information was released on how this man killed so she wasn't sure where this name had come from.

Speaking of, she should really be going home soon..

Hermione sighed, though it was low enough that she had thought the person on the either side could not hear her. From this angle, she could tell he was a man, tall as well, though no other semblance of his appearance was visible. She could neither tell his age nor anything else about him; she didn't know why but something about him irked her. Was it his stance, maybe? Or how still he was?

"Will you-"

"I know you," his voice suddenly broke through the silence. It stunned Hermione for a moment, he sounded young - almost, though again she wasn't sure. His voice was confident and clear, strong - as though he could speak to millions and not falter in his diction. She really couldn't believe she could glean that from merely one sentence; three words alone.

Feeling slightly anxious and with her brows furrowed, Hermione replied, "Do you mean to say that you know _of_ me?" She pried, not sure what he had wanted to say.

"Not as much as I would like to," he said it stoically, not sounding at all flirtatious. It made Hermione uneasy. This man... it was as though the silence between his sentences were truly the words he intended to say.

"How do you know of me?" she repeated again, hoping he would open up more. It worried her; people usually come here to talk. Those who were nervous would fidget, or stutter, or leave reluctantly and come back almost instantly again. The man was doing none of this; it was as though he was here without intending to be, without meaning it.

The man shifted; not uncomfortably though, it was as though he was... preparing.

"You are intelligent," the man said simply, "you excel at what you do, everything you do. I have been around 27 years and I have not met a person like you, "

Hermione frowned, 27 years... he was merely a year older than her. "Are you here to ask for my hand, then?" She was joking, though she was sure he didn't find it amusing.

A laugh erupted from his lips; it was mocking, not light-hearted. She didn't like it at all.

"Of course not," his tone was full of derision, as though she was insane to suggest something so out of this world, "I am not interested in you in that way, not at all."

 _Not at all?_ Rude, sure, but that wasn't what bothered. He was answering her questions with exact responses, without elaborating or speaking of his own accord. Was he perhaps insane, mental, sick? Should she play nice and try to console him or should she let herself loose on this man? He was truly starting to bother her.

"Alright," she contained her bubbling anger, "how can I be of service then?"

And then out of nowhere, the Silhouette turned and faced her, and the whole act in itself was terrifying. She could not make out his features, still, and she was afraid to see what he looked like; she was thankful for the Glass. But not entirely.

She faced him too.

"Why are you here, Sir?" She tried again, though he was beginning to truly exasperate her.

"Hermione," he said slyly, "what is your profession?"

He seemed to dance from topic to topic; it was getting late and Hermione really needed to get home.

"I'm a neurosurgeon," she said simply.

"And do you like it?"

"I like to help people," she said.

"Do you like to cut people open?"

A pause.

"N-no, of course not," she whispered, shocked. It took her by surprise; what was this man saying?

A sound - pure cackling, almost villainous laughter. "Christ, Hermione, do you not know the meaning of a joke?"

That didn't put her at ease.

"Sir," Hermione said slowly, " _how can I be service?_ "

"You haven't asked how I know your name."

"How do you know my name, then?" She said, her fingers shifting nervously.

"I visited your hospital once, and I took a liking to your mind."

Perhaps this was the most honest sentence he had uttered since he got here.

"Do you want to know why I'm here?" he said suddenly, almost teasingly.

"Yes."

"I feel vacant."

"How so?"

"I was a Doctor, just like you, a neurosurgeon too. I loved every moment of it, the folds and the canvas of the brain - a work of art, no doubt about it. The ability to have one's entire existence in the palm of my hand. One slip of my finger and one's literacy vanished, one's numeracy destroyed, one's eyesight revoked. I felt powerful, in control; this was my calling. I could not imagine myself doing anything else; and then one day, they took away all that I had. I was shunned. Do you know how that feels, Hermione? It is not a feeling you want to know."

This was the most he had said since he had sat down, so this was all because he was upset about being _fired_?

"Why did they do that to you?"

"I killed a man," he said simply, all emotion gone from his voice; as though this was the least emotional part of his speech. An afterthought, almost.

"Accidents can happen," she whispered back, tensing at the way he'd said that.

 _I killed a man..._

"They don't think it was an accident. They say I killed him on purpose."

Hermione's heart was beating a mile a minute now, her gaze was pinned on him as though she could see his face. What did he look like? What was his expression like at the moment? Remorseful? Afraid? Guilty? After a long pause, she licked her dry lips and braved herself to ask, "...Did you?"

"He was my father," was all he responded.

The words rang through her mind over and over again as she realised he hadn't answered the question, _on purpose i killed a man i killed a man he was my father my father i killed a man-_

Hermione's eyes bolted upright only to see that the man was gone; before she could draw her next breath, and almost in the time it took for her heart to beat once, she heard the curtain behind her slide open. He was behind her now.

"Do not turn around," he instructed simply.

She couldn't utter a word, she was terrified, she had no weapon, she was all alone and she had no idea what he was going to do.

"Are you afraid?"

"You're not supposed to be in here," she whispered, and thankfully her voice did not shake. Then she saw it - a pen, she could, if needed.. perhaps his eye-

She could almost feel him smirk from behind her, if only she could see his face...

"Never been alone with a man like this before?" He said, his voice suddenly tantalising. Hermione was now convinced she was in the presence of a madman. He had just admitted to killing someone, and here he was, right behind her, toying with her. Was he just bored? Was this all he had to do for fun now that he was jobless? On a late Friday evening, was this all there was to this mans life, coming hear to toy with women like her? Does he take pride in this?

Hermione's fingers twitched for the pen, and suddenly she felt ice cold fingers on hers. It was not a loving gesture, it was a warning.

"One thing with people like us," he said casually, though his tone laced with hostility, "we're very observant."

Hermione raked her mind for any way she could recognise him; he said he had visited her hospital. As what, a visiting surgeon? Consultant? A patient, even? Perhaps he'd accompanied his father? Too many people, too many faces and she did not remember him once, nor recognise his voice. How could he have gleaned her intelligence had they not interacted? Perhaps this was all just a farce, was he making all this up - who was this man?

"Who are you? And what do you want?" She whispered, eying his pale fingers on hers. He was holding her hand oddly, pressing too strongly into her wrist. Was he checking for her pulse? To see if she was lying...

"The first question yields an obvious answer; surely the point of this whole fare is to not have you see me. Who knows, maybe you should be thankful, perhaps you'd be too smitten otherwise."

She didn't respond to him, and he continued speaking.

"As for what I want..." he inched closer to her; but she knew it was for show, he was trying to gauge a reaction out of her, but she wasn't sure what.

"Maybe you should take me out to dinner first, before asking what it is I want."

He wasn't planning on answering, she'd known it before asking. She felt herself shiver as cold fingers slid across her knuckles as he shifted his hand away from hers; he was leaving.

Right before he exited the small enclosure, Hermione felt his warm breath near her ear as he spoke in a pronounced whisper, "Be careful on your way home, Hermione, there's a killer on the loose."


End file.
